


Midnight Train Going Anywhere

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Strangers, Trains, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire bought the cheapest ticket available, he expected to find himself smashed into a narrow seat on one of the very last compartments on the train, probably marinating in some lady's heavy-handed perfume or dealing with a squalling infant in his face for the six-hour trip. But at some point he must have done something that made the universe very, very happy with him, because his compartment is empty but for one other passenger squished into one of the two window seats, and that passenger is a <i>god</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_ragnell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_ragnell/gifts).



> Written for **lady_ragnell** , for her prompt "E/R, they meet while traveling somewhere"

When Grantaire bought the cheapest ticket available, he expected to find himself smashed into a narrow seat on one of the very last compartments on the train, probably marinating in some lady's heavy-handed perfume or dealing with a squalling infant in his face for the six-hour trip. But at some point he must have done something that made the universe very, very happy with him, because his compartment is empty but for one other passenger squished into one of the two window seats, and that passenger is a _god_.

He's wearing red and he's got blond hair and curls and he's reading Rousseau's _Second Discourse_ , for God's sake, and when Grantaire drops into the row of facing seats and kicks his feet up onto the seat beside him, he glances up and doesn't give Grantaire a bright, fake smile like most would. He just stares, his brows lowered and his lips pursed like he's trying to judge how much of a nuisance Grantaire's going to be.

It makes Grantaire like him immediately. He pulls out his phone as pretense, and makes a show of checking for email (there's just one and it's spam trying to sell him some sort of self-help program that makes him snort and toss it right into the trash folder. The golden Apollo glances at him again, like maybe he's secretly wondering what Grantaire's found so amusing, or maybe that's just wishful thinking on Grantaire's part), and as soon as his compartment-mate has returned his attention to his book, Grantaire takes the opportunity to watch him unobserved.

He's the most animated reader Grantaire has ever seen. Expressions flicker across his face as his eyes scan the page, a wrinkle between his brows, a flattening of his mouth, a derisive sneer as something on the page earns his scorn.

Grantaire laughs. He can't help it. It makes Apollo turn that glare on him, but it's worth it.

There's no point in denying that he was laughing at Apollo, and Grantaire isn't the sort besides. "Why are you reading something that pisses you off so much?"

He expects a dull answer, something like _It's the only book I brought with me and I've got to do_ something _with the next six hours_ , or _It's required reading for this class I'm taking and we've got a quiz next Tuesday._ He's just making conversation, killing time just like everyone else on the train.

Apollo scowls and takes him in with a look that sizes him up and finds him wanting in an instant. "The whole _point_ of reading is to feel something."

Grantaire bounces his heel against the seat cushion. "Sure, but there a whole lot better feelings than anger that I can think of. Why not one of them?"

"There's more than enough media in our society that's designed to numb and distract and placate. I prefer to be challenged."

"You would," Grantaire says, and grins. Apollo rocks back and gives him a dubious look, like he thinks maybe that was a compliment. It makes Grantaire grin harder. "I like my entertainments a bit more on the pleasant side, myself."

Apollo gives Grantaire's bag, with its half-empty bottle of wine trying to escape onto the compartment floor, a cool look. "Yes," he says archly. "I can see that you do."

Grantaire pushes the soles of his shoes into the chair upholstery just for the way it makes Apollo flinch. He's got a bunch of new games loaded onto his phone to pass the time, but the hell with that. This is going to be _much_ more fun.

*

They spend the first hour trading barbs. Apollo seems to come alive the more Grantaire stands his own against him, and there's certainly no shortage of topics they disagree on.

In the second hour, Grantaire learns that Apollo's name is Enjolras, and he earns himself another thirty minutes of arguing when he casually calls him _Enj_.

They spend another two hour debating Rousseau versus Paine, and Grantaire gets to experience the singular joy of watching Enjolras's ire fade to fascinated interest and enthusiasm. He's uncompromising in his opinions, but that just makes the debate more fun. Grantaire breaks out the wine halfway through it, and counters Enjolras's frown by offering him a turn from the bottle.

He takes it eventually, and takes a modest sip before handing the bottle back. Grantaire takes a longer one, and fancies he can taste Enjolras on the mouth of the bottle.

Enjolras seems to disapprove less when Grantaire proves that he can hold his own even while drinking. Four hours out, the sun's going down and the landscape outside the window is turning into flashing shadows and lights. An attendant with a cart comes by and offers them sandwiches, and Enjolras is so distracted by Grantire's assertion that Paine's definition of _rights_ is flawed that he doesn't even notice when Grantaire passes a handful of bills over to the attendant and pays for both of their suppers.

Five hours into the ride and an hour from his destination, Grantaire sits up in alarm when Enjolras starts gathering his things as the train pulls into a station. "Well, this is my transfer," he says, and drops his copy of the _Second Discourse_ onto Grantaire's lap as he sidles out of the compartment. "Try it. You might actually discover that you like a challenge."

Then he's gone, leaving Grantaire staring, and then scrambling, after him.

Enjolras is halfway across the platform when Grantaire comes staggering off the train. He follows after him, waits until he sees what train Enjolras boards, and then shoulders his way up to the ticket counter. "One seat to wherever that one's going," he says, indicating the train with a jerk of his head as he digs his wallet out of his bag.

The guy behind the counter blinks at him. "You want--"

"Wherever it's going! Quick, before it leaves the station!"

The guy shakes his head like Grantaire is a madman, but he takes Grantaire's card, and hands him a ticket in return. Grantaire doesn't even bother to check the destination, just shoves it in his pocket and runs.

He makes it onto the train with seconds to spare, then spends the first unsteady minutes of the trip making his way from one car to the next, trying not to be too obvious that he's searching for Enjolras.

He finds him alone again, and Grantaire silently promises to give the universe a libation of his very best wine as soon as he's home, because the universe fucking _loves_ him.

"Oh, you're going this way, too?" Grantaire says casually as he drops down into the seat beside Enjolras's, their shoulders brushing. "Fancy that." He hands the book back over and pretends he doesn't notice the way Enjolras ducks his head to hide a smile. "I don't need some dead philosopher to challenge me, or make me feel. I figure you're managing that well enough all on your own."

This time Enjolras doesn't even bother trying to hide his grin. Grantaire digs out his phone and sends a quick text to Éponine. _Change of plans. Don't need a pickup tonight._

It's approximately thirty seconds before she shoots back a reply. _You'd better have a good excuse for ditching me. Where are you going?_

 _To heaven,_ he says, _and an angel is leading me there._ And then he tucks the phone away and shoots Enjolras a grin. "All right, tell me more about those opinions about Paine's Bonapartist leanings…"

He doesn't know where the hell they're going, but he hopes to God and the universe that it's very, very far away.


	2. Chapter 2

Heaven, it turns out, is not as far away as Grantaire might have hoped, but it's going to take them halfway through the morning to get there, so he supposes he can't complain.

Eventually, he is going to have to get himself home, and his bank balance will be grateful that he won't have to pay for a ticket halfway across the country, but he's not thinking about that now because Enjolras is expounding upon the differences between Locke's, Paine's, and Hobbes's theories of rights, and Grantaire finished his bottle of wine with super and the alcohol is making him loose and warm and all too fond of this vision of red and gold in front of him. He keeps waving his hands about to punctuate a point, and Grantaire rather wants to catch them in his own and pull Enjolras in with them and kiss him. But Enjolras will shut up if he does that, and that would be a terrible shame.

"--You're not even listening," Enjolras says abruptly, in the middle of a tirade. 

Grantaire cracks an eye open and gives him a slow smile. "I assure you, I am." And he parrots back everything Enjolras has said since the last time he paused to take a breath, just for the way it makes Enjolras's brows climb high and surprise wash across his face.

It takes him a moment, but he manages to get his expression under control again, and presses his mouth into a flat line. "If I'm boring you that much, you can always just pull the bed down and go to sleep."

Grantaire has a protest ready that the _last_ thing Enjolras is doing is boring him, but it goes unvoiced, forgotten, as he scrambles upright. "Bed? There's a _bed_ on this train?"

Enjolras's expression is all cool amusement. "It's an overnight trip. Didn't you know when you booked the ticket?"

He's smirking, waiting for Grantaire to acknowledge what they both know -- that Grantaire didn't know a thing about this train when he bought the ticket except that Enjolras was on it. It's no secret, but Grantaire likes to tease, and he particularly likes the way it makes Enjolras's eyes spark when he does, so he just tips his head to the side and gives a crooked grin as he says, "All I knew was that I was getting the cheap seats. I figured as long as they didn't throw me in the baggage compartment for the whole trip, I'd count myself lucky."

And there's the spark, burning up Enjolras's eyes, pulling the corners of his mouth into a sharp, crooked smile. "I'd say you're lucky, then."

And that is so true in so many ways that Grantaire has to turn away and demand that Enjolras put his money where his mouth is and show Grantaire this miraculous bed that appears from nowhere, because the only other option he has is to do something truly stupid.

Enjolras just smirks, and swats Grantaire out of the way, and then he reaches up to what Grantaire had thought was a baggage compartment, and had paid no mind because he didn't have anything but his messenger bag, because this wasn't supposed to be anything more than an half-day trip to Éponine's.

The bed pulls down from the ceiling like magic. It's narrow and the mattress looks thin and it'll probably give Grantaire a kink in his back, but it's a _bed_ , and the prospect of sleeping on the train -- of doing so lying down, with a proper pillow, not just his lumpy bag shoved under his cheek -- is delightful enough to make up for it.

The idea of doing it with Enjolras right there with him, of listening to him breathe, of finding out whether or not he's a snorer, makes the prospect of thin, uncomfortable mattresses moot, because it's not as though Grantaire's going to be able to sleep with those thoughts running through his mind anyway.

He clambers up onto the bed to try it out. The mattress isn't quite as bad as it looked from the floor, and Grantaire lies on his back with his head on the tiny pillow and grins at the compartment's ceiling. "This is grand," he says, "but where are you going to sleep?"

He doesn't mean it to come out suggestive, he's only thinking that if there's only one bed in the compartment then there's no way that Grantaire can condemn the closest embodiment to a god that he's ever met to sleep propped up on a lumpy train seat. But when he rolls over to look for Enjolras's reaction, because he's silent for a beat too long, he finds Enjolras looking at him over the edge of the bed, an eyebrow raised, like maybe Grantaire's question was a hell of a lot more leading than he'd intended.

"The seats pull down flat and turn into a bed, too," Enjolras says. "So I can sleep down there." And it must be a night for accidentally suggestive comments, because it sounds a hell of a lot like there's hesitation in Enjolras's voice, like he's _offering_ it, like there's an option at all and the choice is up to Grantaire, but that makes no sense because the only other option is--

Grantaire clambers around on the bed until he's laying sideways on it on his stomach, his elbows on the mattress's edge, leaning in toward Enjolras. And the wine was probably a mistake because it's burning through his veins now and it's going to make him do something really, really stupid.

"Enj," he breathes, because irritating Enjolras is pretty much the only thing he can think of right now that's going to save him from himself.

Enjolras just twitches a brow and shakes his head, rolling his eyes with a smile. "That's not my name. Don't call me that."

And that's really not going to cut it. Enjolras is looking at him like he's _fond_ , like Grantaire is just a friend being ridiculous and Enjolras maybe sort of secretly likes it. It only makes the urge to do something stupid even stronger. Grantaire's going to get himself punched in the face if he's not careful, and then Éponine is just never going to stop laughing at him.

"Enj," he says again, for the way it makes the corner of Enjolras's mouth pull tight. "Hobbes was a latent monarchist. His theories about the nature of man prove it. If all men are inherently self-serving, like he argues, then democratic rule is just going to devolve to in-fighting and everyone turning on each other for their own gain. All you have to do is look at the modern political climate to see that."

It's a Hail Mary pass, a last, desperate effort to get Enjolras riled up and off on a rant, and because if he's going to get punched in the face by a golden god, he'd rather it be for something he didn't mean than something he did. But all Enjolras does is duck his head forward to laugh quietly under his breath and say, "You don't believe that. You were arguing the opposite with me not an hour ago."

"I say a lot of stupid shit when I've been drinking. Well, to be fair, I say a lot of stupid shit when I'm sober, too. You shouldn't listen to me." _You shouldn't smile at me like that. You shouldn't be here at all. Why are you still looking at me like you_ like _me?_

The wine was a terrible life choice, but fuck it, he thinks, just fuck it, if Enjolras kills him at least he'll be able to say that he kissed a god before he kicked it, and so he leans forward and curves his hand along the side of Enjolras's neck and covers Enjolras's mouth with his.

He breathes in the soft breath of air that Enjolras sighs into his mouth, and then there are hands on the back of his head, fingers twisting gently into his hair, and he must be having an aneurysm because this can't be real. There is no way the universe loves him _this much_.

When Enjolras pulls back, he doesn't go far, and he leaves his hands in Grantaire's hair, his thumbs brushing circles against the side of his neck. And he's _smiling_ , a real smile that makes the corners of his eyes crease, but a little lopsided and with a bit of an edge, to make it his. "I've been waiting for you to do that since you bought me dinner," he says, like he's confessing something.

"You should have told me," Grantaire says. "Or kissed me." His stomach flips at the thought of Enjolras doing that, of him just leaning in and claiming a kiss, mid-rant. "You definitely should have kissed me."

Enjolras _grins_ , bright and blinding, and leans in to do just that. This time it's not just lips, there's teeth and breath and Enjolras's hands pushing deeper into his hair, grabbing tight and pulling Grantaire's mouth to where he wants it.

"Get up here," Grantaire breathes, pulling at Enjolras's collar. "Come on, get up here _now_ , if they're going to give us a bed we might as well make good use of it."

But Enjolras shakes his head and pulls back. "It's not designed for the weight of two."

That sounds like the cruelest joke Grantaire's ever heard, until Enjolras takes another step back and says, "Come down. We'll lay this one out, and it'll do."

Grantaire climbs down, careful not to hit Enjolras in the head with an elbow or a knee, because that would be just his luck. By the time he's got both feet on the floor, Enjolras has pulled both seats down to make a flat bed. It's little wider than the one up top, and there's no sheets or pillows on it yet, but Grantaire doesn't wait to fit his hands to Enjolras's waist and push him down onto it. Neither of them are going to need blankets or pillows for a while yet, anyway, if he has his way.

This is the moment where he'd usually stop and overthink things, now that the first move's been made but the distance is back between them, but Enjolras doesn't give him a chance. He grabs onto Grantaire, one hand in his shirt and the other back in his hair, and pushes him back until the edge of the bed hits him behind the knees. And then he keeps pushing, sprawling Grantaire out on his back and climbing over him.

Grantaire holds onto him, fingers aching they're clenched so tight. His head is spinning, but this time, it's nothing to do with the wine. It's all Enjolras, going straight to his head like the hardest liquor. 

Enjolras climbs over him, holds himself above him while they kiss so that the heat of his body is a cruel promise, tempting but barely there, not touching, not yet. Grantaire bites at his lower lip just for the way it makes Enjolras suck in a breath, then laves his tongue over it to soothe the sting. He wants to laugh, giddy and delirious. He wants to never, ever get off this train.

He didn't expect Enjolras to be the aggressive one. Grantaire thought he'd be the one urging Enjolras into a kiss, thought he'd be the one on top, grinding against him desperately and praying that Enjolras won't pull back and send him off to his own bunk with blue balls.

He was wrong. He was completely, thoroughly, wonderfully wrong. Enjolras kisses the way Grantaire is starting to suspect he does everything in his life. Fiercely, passionately, with a focus and dedication that is breathtaking to find one's self the center of. He kisses like it's a debate and he's determined to win.

Grantaire, for his part, has never been one to concede defeat easily. He bites back. He sucks Enjolras's lip into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over it, until it's gone pink and swollen and Enjolras's breath goes unsteady every time Grantaire drags his tongue over it.

He grabs fistfuls of Enjolras's shirt and pulls it untucked from his pants, then works his hands underneath and slides his palms over the hot, bare skin of his stomach. His muscles tremble beneath Grantaire's touch and his breath stutters against Grantaire's mouth when Grantaire rucks his shirt up high enough to sweep a thumb in a circle around one of Enjolras's nipples.

Enjolras's lips part on a breath, his eyes shut and his expression slack with pleasure. Grantaire pulls back just enough that he can see Enjolras's face, that he can watch the way Grantaire's touch reflects across it as he works Enjolras's nipple into a hard peak and then catches it between his fingers and tugs.

It makes Enjolras's hips flex, has him making a wounded sound and his eyes opening to fix on Grantaire.

Grantaire hooks a leg around his hips and rolls Enjolras over beneath him. When Enjolras _lets_ him, he grins brilliantly, and pushes Enjolras's shirt up higher, until its caught beneath his arms and the long stretch of his chest and stomach is spread across the bed, pale and flushed and stronger than he looked with his clothes still on. "Come on, Apollo," Grantaire breathes, bending low to kiss up his stomach. "I want to look at you."

"That's not my name, either," Enjolras says, but it's a token protest. He's already writhing between Grantaire, twisting as he struggles to get his shirt off over his head. Grantaire lets him work at it, kneeling up over him and enjoying the display as he peels the shirt off and tosses it aside like it offends him.

He's all long lines and wiry muscle, and he wears a bemused expression as Grantaire looks him over, like he's indulging him. His hands rest on Grantaire's hips, thumbs tracing patterns at his waist, and there's heat enough in his gaze that Grantaire figures it might be worth it to let Enjolras have the reins, and see what he does with them.

Grantaire leans over him, easing in for a kiss that's all tongue and shared breath. Enjolras's hands tighten, fingers biting into Grantaire's waist, and as soon as Grantaire gives up the advantage of leverage, sliding down to rest most of his weight against Enjolras, he slips out from beneath Grantaire's weight and climbs on top of him, pressing him face-down into the bed.

Grantaire pillows his head on his arms and moans against his bicep. Enjolras's weight presses him down and this is all very real and very sudden. He feels like he's going to shake apart beneath Enjolras if he isn't careful, he's going to come apart at the seams and everything inside him is going to spill out, all the fondness he already feels for Enjolras that's too much, too strong for someone he only met that morning.

Enjolras's hips weigh heavy against Grantaire's. He's _hard_. Even with his pants still on, the solid length of him presses against Grantaire's ass like a promise, and Grantaire has to dig his teeth into the tender skin inside his arm to keep his mouth from running away from him. " _Please_ ," he manages, and only that, before he cuts himself off and loses the rest in a strangled groan.

Enjolras is a long stripe of heat against his back. He leans in close, lips brushing the edge of Grantaire's ear as he matches their bodies and _pushes_ their hips together, like there isn't any clothing between them at all, like they're fucking. "Doing okay?" he asks, low and velvet-smooth against Grantaire's ear, and there's a smile in his voice like he knows the answer, like he _knows_ Grantaire's half gone already and he's still got his fucking clothes on.

Of course he knows. It's not as though Grantaire's able to be circumspect about it.

Grantaire turns his head so he can speak without his arm muffling the sounds. Enjolras keeps up that slight, rocking pressure and it makes Grantaire's voice come out broken and unsteady as he says, "I don't suppose that nice attendant's likely to have any lube for sale in her cart, is she?"

Enjolras laughs beneath his breath and grins. His teeth scrape across the back of Grantaire's neck. "Doubtful." He slips his hands around Grantaire's waist, like he's hugging him. But then his fingers tug at the button of Grantaire's fly and reveal his true purpose as nothing so innocent as a simple embrace. "We'll have to make do without."

There's nothing Grantaire can say to that but to laugh a little wildly and bury his face in his arms again, where it's dark and Enjolras's hands tracing over him feel like a dream.

He chokes back a desperate sound when Enjolras's fingers work his fly open, tracing along his boxer-clad cock as the zipper parts. And when Enjolras's hands slide away, he sucks in air like a drowning man and lifts his hips from the bed so Enjolras can push his pants down and help him free his ankles from the legs of his jeans.

He pulls Grantaire's boxers down, too, but leaves them around his thighs like he hasn't the patience to undress Grantaire completely. And Grantaire might complain, might wiggle around until he's able to kick them off himself, but just as he's formulating the thought, Enjolras rises up to kneel over him, and the unmistakable sound of a zipper runs down Grantaire's spine like a physical touch. 

He twists, straining to see over his shoulder as Enjolras sheds his own pants with quick, efficient movements. He's wearing briefs, white cotton stretched tight over the straining bulge of his cock, and oh god, Grantaire _wants_.

He flips over, fending off Enjolras's hands when he tries to keep him on his stomach, then bends low to show him the merits of doing this face-to-face.

Enjolras goes very still when Grantaire closes his mouth on him through the cotton. His fingers tighten in Grantaire's hair, but otherwise he's motionless, his breath coming hard and sharp. Grantaire glances up at him as his tongue traces the ridge of a vein all the way up. Enjolras's gaze is _blazing_ , burning bright with desire.

"Doing okay?" Grantaire asks, then grins so Enjolras will know he's being cheeky.

Enjolras's laughter is more an explosion than anything else, a violent burst of air surprised out of him. "Yes," he says, and sweeps his thumb across Grantaire's cheek. "Very okay."

Grantaire inches the elastic waist of his briefs down his hips and sucks the head of Enjolras's cock into his mouth as soon as it's bared. He tastes like salt and skin and a little bit like laundry soap and it's amazing, absolutely amazing. He wants to spend the rest of his life like this, blowing Enjolras and listening to him fall apart above him.

Too soon, Enjolras's fingers tighten in his hair and he eases Grantaire back. Grantaire makes a low sound of protest and strains against his grip, but Enjolras just gives a breathless laugh and traces his fingers across Grantaire's lips. "God, you're going to kill me," he murmurs, and then bends down to cover Grantaire's lips with his own, like that's a good thing.

Grantaire doesn't protest when Enjolras bears him down onto his back, just wraps his arms around his neck and his legs around his hips and grinds up against Enjolras's, until Enjolras gets the idea and pushes back.

The first slide of Enjolras's cock against his knocks the air out of Grantaire's lungs, leaves him with his back bowed and his head thrown back. Enjolras latches onto his throat and sucks and bites like he wants to leave a bruise.

Grantaire doesn't have the breath to tell him that he wants him to, that he'll carry his mark with pride, but he buries his hands in Enjolras's hair and moans happily, and hopes he understands all the same.

"I want you to come for me," Enjolras says, and _fuck_ , whoever gave him the looks of a god matched it with the voice of a sinner, and it's just straight-up unfair. Grantaire's just a man, how can he be anything but lost?

"I'm going to," he laments. "Probably a lot sooner than you'd like."

That just makes Enjolras grin. He pushes up onto his arms and rolls his hips against Grantaire's, watching his face closely. And maybe Grantaire would be embarrassed about that in another world, all too self-conscious about the strange sorts of expressions he must be making. But not tonight. Tonight he's consumed by the need to make sure that when he comes, he doesn't leave Enjolras behind. He works a hand between their bodies and grasps both their cocks in his fist.

Enjolras lets his breath out all at once and fucks against Grantaire. He sets the pace, but with his hand around both of them, it's Grantaire who controls the rest, until Enjolras is a gasping, shuddering mess above him. "Come on," he murmurs, pushing a hand through Enjolras's curls to pull them off his face and out of his eyes. "Let me see you. I bet you look gorgeous when you come."

Enjolras makes a strained, desperate sound and turns his face to press it against Grantaire's palm. "No one looks good when they come."

"You're going to, I can tell." Grantaire leans up to kiss him, licking into his mouth. " _Come on_ , Enjolras, prove me wrong then. Let me see."

Enjolras shudders and squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, and fucks into Grantaire's grip as he falls apart, like all it takes is Grantaire calling him by his own name to make him lose it completely. And Grantaire was right, he's _gorgeous_ like this, color burning high across his cheeks and spreading down across his chest, his mouth gone slack and lips swollen from Grantaire's kisses. His lungs heave, and when he opens his eyes to stare down at Grantaire he looks stunned, shaken to his very foundation. It's the most beautiful thing Grantaire's ever seen, the way Enjolras gapes at him like he can't believe Grantaire made him feel as good as he did.

His come smears between Grantaire's fingers and across his stomach as Grantaire strokes him through it, until his breath catches and he hitches back from the touch. Grantaire releases him, and for a moment it's just his own hand on his own cock while Enjolras looks down at him as though watching him jerk off is the most amazing sight in the world.

Grantaire gets in half a dozen frantic strokes before Enjolras covers his hand with his own and takes charge of the pace, turns it into something new and unfamiliar. It's better like that, because it's suddenly Enjolras who's stroking him off and that's about a million times more amazing that doing it himself. And Enjolras is watching him, staring down into his face like it holds the secrets of the universe, like it's more fascinating than Paine and Hobbes and Rousseau combined.

Grantaire's not ready for this to be over yet, not ready to give up whatever lucky break the universe has decided to grant him in letting this be something that actually happened to him. But he's no match for the reality of having that laser focus, that passionate attention, turned onto him. He comes with a low cry, his eyes open and fixed on Enjolras, and he doesn't let them slide shut until the last shudders have coursed through him and Enjolras has leaned down to press his brow against Grantaire's sternum.

"Okay," Enjolras says against his skin. Grantaire looks down at him, still more than a little dazed, but all he can see is the riot of Enjolras's hair curling golden across Grantaire's skin. "I was wrong. But _I'm_ not the one who's the exception."

"Bullshit you aren't." Grantaire grins giddily up at the bottom of the bunk overhead. "What's this place we're headed to like? Is it nice? I think I might like to stay there forever."

It's a joke, but Enjolras is quiet too long and Grantaire starts to fear maybe Enjolras realizes he's more serious than he ought to be. Enjolras lifts his head, letting the point of his chin dig in between Grantaire's ribs, so Grantaire looks down at him again, and lets him catch his gaze. "It's nice," he says. "You should come back when you can stay for a while. Let one of the locals show you around."

"Yeah?" Grantaire's heart thumps too hard within his chest, but he plays it off with a grin. "You know any locals who might be willing to take the job?"

"I'm sure I can think of someone," Enjolras says, perfectly serious.

There's no way Grantaire can respond to that but to cup Enjolras's face in his hands and kiss him. This is all going to seem ridiculous in the light of day. Who goes and falls for a stranger on a train, anyway? Éponine would tell him he was an idiot, if she knew.

Probably, Éponine would tell him that he's an idiot for harboring hope that they might be able to make this into anything more than what it is, a chance encounter and a one-night stand. Or maybe she'd smack him upside the head and call him a moron for not ever being able to just accept a good thing when it happens to him.

Éponine's always been the smart one, between the two of them. And if he's going to be an idiot either way, he'd rather be one who gets to enjoy this for just a little while longer. So he thinks _fuck it_ for the second time that night, and wraps an arm around Enjolras's shoulders so he can't go anywhere, and murmurs, "Tell me what you think of Montesquieu, then, why don't you, Apollo?"

Enjolras gives a little humming laugh. "You don't really like to talk political philosophy in bed, do you?"

"You do, though, I bet. And I can tell you've got things you want to say about him. You're quivering like a hound on a scent." He ruffles a hand through Enjolras's hair and kisses his brow. "Go on, then. I may not care one way or another about Enlightenment political theory, but I like hearing you talk."

Enjolras smiles so bright that Grantaire has to wonder if maybe, in this at least, he is the exception to the rule after all. But Enjolras is the sort of man who knows to take advantage of something when it's presented to him, so he slides off of Grantaire, pressing up warm against his side, and starts talking in a low, steady rhythm about separation of powers and Montesquieu's misguided faith in the monarchy.

Grantaire drifts off sooner than he likes, and wakes up to morning light shining through the compartment's window and Enjolras quietly bustling around, shoving his belongings into his bag. He grimaces when Grantaire scrubs his hands over his face and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Sorry," he whispers. "We're a few minutes out from our stop." He pushes Grantaire's bag into his hands, then takes the opportunity to reel him in for a kiss while Grantaire's still trying to blink the sand out of his eyes. "I think I got all your stuff for you, but you'd better take a second look just to be sure I didn't miss anything."

Grantaire nods groggy thanks and works his way around the compartment, checking down between the seats and under the chairs, but finds nothing except one of the battered receipts that Enjolras uses in place of a proper bookmarks. By the time he's finished his search, the train's pulling into the station, and there's little left to do but to steal one final, farewell kiss before they disembark. 

Enjolras squeezes his hand as Grantaire hesitates beside him in the station. "I've got to get home," he says, and it sounds like an apology. "Combeferre — that's my roommate — he knows the train schedules and he'll worry if I'm late."

Grantaire nods, says, "Of course, I understand," and even manages to mostly mean it. And if he feels a little bereft when Enjolras turns and walks away, out through the turnstiles at the station's entrance and into the sunlight, it's only because Éponine's right and he really is an idiot.

He books a ticket back home and buys a coffee from the kiosk while he waits for his train. When it arrives, there's someone else already in the compartment, an older man in a rumpled suit who's got his feet kicked up as he snores. 

Grantaire drops into his seat and pulls his bag on his lap to dig out his headphones. His heart thumps hard when he pulls out a book instead. It's Enjolras's copy of Rousseau's _Second Discourse_ , and Grantaire knows he didn't put it in there. He flips it open, frowning.

There's a note scrawled across the title page:

_Sometimes a challenge can be the best sort of pleasure. Try it, you might like it._

_And then we can talk about it. I'm sure you've got opinions, and I'd love to hear them. Call me. 555-1832._

Grantaire stares down at the note for a solid minute before he realizes that he's grinning hard enough to make his face hurt. He pulls his phone out and dials the number. He's not expecting to get much more than Enjolras's voicemail, but when the line connects and Enjolras's breathless voice asks, "Grantaire? It's you, right? I'm going to be really embarrassed if this is a telemarketer," Grantaire just leans back in his seat and laughs with giddy relief. 

"I read the _Second Discourse_ in college, actually," he says, kicking his feet up onto the seat and grinning at the thought of how much it would piss Enjolras off if he knew. "Wrote my term paper on Rousseau's theories of the origin of society. I aced the paper and kind of loved the _Discourse_."

"Oh my god," Enjolras says with a burst of laughter. "You _would_." And then he's off on a rant and Grantaire just smiles as the sound of his voice buoys up his spirits. He'd never tell Enjolras, it would probably go straight to his head, but he was right after all. Debating with Enjolras is one of the greatest challenges Grantaire has ever known, but it's also the best damn time he's ever had in longer than he can remember.

He's got a long ride ahead of him and Enjolras's voice in his ear and the morning sun is shining on his face, and Grantaire's already trying to figure out just how soon he can take a few days off and book a return trip. He's never been a big fan of travel, but Enjolras is teaching him to appreciate all sorts of new things. It's only fitting that they add this one to the list, too.

"You should come out to the city someday," he says when Enjolras pauses to take a breath. "I've still got that paper. I'll do a dramatic reading of it, and then you can tell me all the reasons that I'm wrong."

"Okay," Enjolras says, sudden, like he's startled by the invitation. "I'd like that."

Grantaire was never the most dedicated student, even if he did manage to skate by with decent grades, and he always thought that the best thing about graduating was not having to worry about argumentative theses or citing sources anymore, but he's not at all surprised to realize that he means it when he says, "Good, I'd like it, too."

Éponine's going to have dire things to say to him about the pitfalls of long-distance relationships when he finally gets to her place, he's sure. But fuck it. It's going to be worth it, and Grantaire is definitely up for the challenge.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Midnight Train Going Anywhere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/993705) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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